Resolutions
by SumRandomNutt
Summary: This is a collection of post-DH drabbles which are also expanded into ficlets. Each is primarily focused on some aspect of life after the war, depicting what has been resolved...or what hasn't.
1. The Road Not Taken: Drabble

**The Road Not Taken**

_Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,  
And sorry I could not travel both  
And be one traveler, long I stood  
And looked down one as far as I could  
To where it bent in the undergrowth;_

_Then took the other, as just as fair,  
And having perhaps the better claim,  
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;  
Though as for that the passing there  
Had worn them really about the same,_

_And both that morning equally lay  
In leave no steps had trodden black.  
Oh, I kept the first for another day!  
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,  
I doubted if I should ever come back._

_I shall be telling this with a sigh  
Somewhere ages and ages hence:  
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—  
I took the one less traveled by,  
And that has made all the difference._

-Robert Frost

* * *

She'd bumped into him in Diagon Alley. He'd managed, infuriatingly, to be both polite and scathing. Somehow, despite their mutual disdain, she found herself between silken sheets in Malfoy Manor, caught in a tangle of glacial eyes and platinum hair.

Later, she couldn't fathom her reasoning. It was well known that Hermione Granger hated not knowing everything. Perhaps that was why she'd done it. She'd never experienced the darker side of passion, the fire that seared rather than warmed. With Ron, everything was tender and magical. She needed, she rationalized, a healthy dose of reality. Anyway, it only happened once.


	2. The Road Not Taken: Part 1

Hermione sighed in frustration, tugging a lock of frizzy hair behind her ear. The wind, of course, would have none of this—it promptly whipped a few brownish strands back into her face. The witch ceased resisting and instead tugged her coat more tightly around her body. Flurries of snow had begun to fall, and while she normally would have rejoiced at such a visible reminder of the season, her thoughts today were elsewhere.

She'd been distracted ever since last week's dinner at the Weasleys. She'd seen Ginny for the first time in months, so naturally, they'd spent most of the evening catching up with one another. Ginny, with a look of such perfect innocence that it must have been contrived, "let it slip" that Ron was planning to propose.

The mention of engagement, for reasons unknown to even Hermione, sent her spinning into a blind, sickening panic. She could think of nothing else. While such ruthless obsession was quite normal for the famous Miss Granger, such persistent anxiety was not. She was thrilled, make no mistake, but…

That was just it. There was a "but," but she couldn't put her finger on exactly what it was. Why did the idea of a diamond ring frighten her so? Her current state was as irritating as it was perplexing. It was bad enough she'd ruined a sweater when Ginny whispered the news—Hermione dripped scalding tea down her front. She'd been too shaken to perform a proper Cleaning Charm, and she'd been too embarrassed to accept Ginny's offer of assistance.

But it wasn't even unexpected, really! Ronald was endearingly awful at keeping secrets. He'd been tip-toeing around for weeks with the triumphant air of a man who thinks he's cleverly hidden something. Imagining his self-satisfied grin, she shook her head with a fond smile.

The streets of Diagon Alley were growing more crowded by the minute. Vendors called above the chatter of those wandering the streets, declaring the potential of their wares as Christmas gifts. It was early December, and the feverish cheer had already begun to descend on wizards and Muggles alike. Hermione's inner child smirked at the cloaked figures scurrying to and fro. She'd finished her shopping _weeks_ ago, except for a single gift. What on Earth was she going to get for Ron? He was going to propose, for Merlin's sake! How could she top that?

Cocooned in frantic thoughts, she failed to notice the black-clad figure striding toward her. Apparently, he, too, was preoccupied; they collided most spectacularly. Winded, they ricocheted away from one another, and before either of them could so much as blink, both whipped out their wands and held them at the ready. Despite the peace that had reined for several years, old habits were difficult to break.

"Granger?" The voice was familiar, laced with astonishment and the merest hint of disdain.

"Malfoy!" His voice was smooth and cool as a serpent, but she could not keep the surprise from coloring her own. "What are you doing here?" As soon as the question left her mouth, she regretted it. It was undeniably stupid.

Draco's eyebrows raised, and a humorless smile twisted his lips. "Shopping, like most of the rest of the world. I'm sure that you, however, did so in July."

Her traitorous face flushed scarlet at the calmly-delivered line. Although he sounded superficially polite, she was certain some veiled insult slumbered in his words. "No!" she insisted defensively, rattling her shopping bag as if to prove him wrong.

He squinted at the ornate script printed across the front and, without so much as a by-your-leave, stepped forward to peer into the bag. "_Applications of __Arithmancy__ in Deciphering Modern __Muggle__ Mysteries_? You're the only person I know who would enjoy something so tedious."

She snatched the bag away from him, her face suffusing with even more blood. It was true, though. After desperately searching half the stores in the Alley for a gift for her soon-to-be fiancé (with no luck), she'd decided she ought to splurge a bit, just to calm her nerves.

"If you must know," she said with a very schoolgirlish sniff, "I'm looking for something for Ronald."

The flash of Malfoy's arrogant grin made her want to punch him. "Well, I doubt he'll be able to pronounce the title, much less stay awake long enough to read the whole thing."

She stiffened. _Here _was the rude, despicable Malfoy she knew. "Oh, grow up, Malfoy! We're not at Hogwarts anymore. You can't use foolish youth as an excuse." Eyes flashing umber rage, she stomped past him, assuaging her embarrassment with fury. In her haste, she slipped on a particularly slick patch of sidewalk and crashed most ungracefully to the ground.

A volley of curses that made Malfoy's pale eyebrows raise spewed from her lips, but she made no attempt to get up. She simply sat in the slush, fuming, her fierce glare daring Malfoy to laugh.

Laugh he did not, though his lips twitched once. To her infinite surprise, he extended a hand to her and said, with all apparent sincerity, "I apologize. Old habits are, I suppose, hard to break."

For a moment, she was too dumbfounded to move. However, the cold wetness seeping steadily through her thick cloak returned her to her senses, and she accepted his assistance warily. She felt that she owed him some sort of response, so she grudgingly muttered, "Thank you."

He released her arm with a nod and bent down to pick up the now-sodden Flourish And Blotts bag. At Hermione's cry of dismay for her precious book, he took out his wand yet again and muttered a quick drying charm. He offered it back without a word, and again she said, "Thank you."

"If you're going to be out for a while longer, I'd suggest you do the same with your robes," he advised.

She could do nothing but nod.

"Also…" And now, for perhaps the first time in her life, she had the jarring experience of watching Draco Malfoy hesitate. "Malfoy Manor has a well-stocked library. The collection is considerably more advanced than anything you'll find in a store, and I'd say considerably more…interesting, as well." A strange edge infiltrated his voice, and for an instant, his face darkened. "You're welcome to drop by and borrow whatever you like." He stared at her, something like a challenge glinting in his icy regard.

Her mouth literally dropped open. "Uh?"

His face wrinkled—it was a uniquely expressive face, she thought idly. "That, if I may say, is rather unattractive. Anyway, consider it a gesture of…friendship. It's past time to bury old grudges, entertaining as they may be." He thrust out his hand, and it irked her to see that both voice and expression were unreadable.

She couldn't tell whether he was being sincere, so she had to assume that he was. Her mouth contorted into a small frown, like the one she got when solving a particularly difficult Arithmancy problem or when she was embroiled in research. She gripped his hand firmly enough, but a slight tremor shivered through her fingers.

"Well, see you around, Granger," Malfoy said eventually after several moments of silence. He turned away with a swish of his cloak and a grace that sent a stab of envy coursing through her, and she stared after him, still thunderstruck.

A tangle of half-formed, confused thoughts churned in her mind as she watched his retreating figure. Her brain felt as heavy and sodden as her cloak. Malfoy wasn't _friendly_. He just…wasn't.

He'd said he had books. She thought of the enormous library that the Malfoy Manor must boast (even after confiscations by the reformed Ministry), and her mouth nearly watered. No. Absolutely not. This had to be some trick of Malfoy's. She ought to Apparate home straightaway.

Except that she couldn't. She'd forgotten. It was Ron's day off, and he would no doubt be at home, practicing his proposal in the mirror. She'd nearly been caught catching him at it twice since Ginny spilled the beans, and she wasn't sure she could feign ignorance after her rather traumatic morning.

Whatever had numbed her mind, be it snow or surprise or that deep, deep panic, she decided to hold responsible for this ridiculous behavior. She sprinted down the street after the pale-haired man, her curls bouncing. Little puffs of snow, which had accumulated atop her head while she hesitated, now drifted to the ground. Her cloak dragged clumsily at her body.

"Malfoy! Wait!"

He stopped sharply and turned around. Even from a distance, she could see with perfect clarity the fleeting expression of suspicion alight on and vanish from his face.

"I'm not going to hex you," she promised, once she'd caught up to him. "But I want to see your library." Her voice had taken on the mulish tone she adopted when Ron and Harry weren't taking her seriously enough. Her chin even jutted out slightly.

Draco smiled his usual Cheshire-cat grin. "As you wish." He offered her his arm, and she stared at him as though he'd grown a second head. He sighed impatiently. "I'd be much surprised if you could Apparate to the Manor on your own," he said. A hint of his former satin cruelty had returned, and it provided a small comfort to the rattled Hermione.

"Oh. Right." She accepted his arm reluctantly, mentally readying herself for Side-Along Apparation. It was unpleasant for her even in normal circumstances—she did so hate not being in control—but the prospect of being blindly led who-knows-where by Draco Malfoy was more than just unsettling.

Had she somehow hit her head when she'd fallen? She distinctly remembered _not_ doing so, but perhaps the moment of impact was lost in amnesia. She should be Apparating to St. Mungo's, not to Malfoy's house! For Merlin's sake, what was she doing?

The familiar jerk overcame thought, and before long, she was staring at the impressive yet somehow desolate bulk of Malfoy Manor.


	3. The Road Not Taken: Part 2

Her fingers trailed reverently along the spines of the nearest books while her eyes traveled dizzyingly upward, following the pattern of the serpent-twined column that adorned the end of this particular shelf. "You know, I think I've only ever seen so many books at Hogwarts and the Ministry." She was speaking in an awed whisper, and though she didn't see it, her amazement made Malfoy smile.

"My father was a reader, once," he remarked.

"Were you?" In her wonder, she'd completely forgotten her antipathy for Draco Malfoy. None of it now tainted her voice.

"I was and am."

She tore her gaze away from the rows upon rows of dusty tomes to stare at him. "You _read_?" she demanded, incredulous. He was sipping tea with an elegance that made her want to throw something at him. Only he could make such a mundane action look so pensive, so…alluring.

She did _not_ just in any way connect the word _alluring_ to Draco Malfoy. All these delicious books must be going to her head.

"Why, yes. You weren't the only literate person in our class, you know. Of course, with friends like yours, it's no wonder you never realized that before."

She bristled, and he hastily held up his hands. "Sorry, sorry. Old habits, as I said. And don't even try to tell me Potter and Weasley don't make the same sort of remarks about me." His eyebrows lifted, and a faint smugness glittered in his eyes when she looked away.

"I knew you were _smart_ Malfoy. I just didn't know you _liked_ to read."

"I never intended for it to be common knowledge."

"Why? Afraid your Slytherin friends would think less of you?" She was mocking him now, but he didn't even gratify her by being affronted. He merely grinned.

"Something like that. Are you going to just stare at the books all day, or read them?"

She shot him another withering glare, wishing profoundly that hers were as effective as his glacial stares, and turned back to the shelves. Her eyes flickered hungrily over the titles, but they were suddenly arrested by one volume in particular.

"Some of these are Dark Arts volumes!" she breathed, wide-eyed and not a little afraid.

"Yes…I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention those to the Ministry."

That wariness stole back into her voice. "Why do you keep these?"

His face was so blank that it could've been carved of marble. "Not all of the Death Eaters have been captured, Granger. I still have enemies, and unlike you, I have to save my own skin—I haven't got Potter and Weasley to protect me." The chilliness in his voice froze her blood. She realized with relief that it wasn't directed at her, but she could still think of no response. Her eyes simply skipped over the title and onto the next.

After several moments of debate and exclamations of delight when she found books she particularly wanted to read, she selected a large, leather-bound volume and carried it to a chair near the fireplace. She was just about to begin reading when a small stack of books on a nearby table caught her eye. She paused, intrigued, and went to examine them.

"_To Kill a Mockingbird_? _Don Quixote_? _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_?" She looked up from the tattered paperbacks, the least well-kept pieces in the great library. Her wonder increased a thousand fold. "You read _Muggle__ literature_?"

He gazed at her steadily, and for a few endless seconds he said nothing. Then, in a voice so low she barely heard it, he said, "Sometimes, Granger, when the world changes, you have to change with it or die." Abruptly, he looked away, staring at the half-empty mug with a brooding intensity that she could feel halfway across the vast room.

This at-a-loss-for-words thing was driving her insane. Stunned and stone silent, she returned to the high-backed, richly-upholstered chair and curled herself daintily upon it. She opened the book with exaggerated care and willingly let herself be swept away in the rhythm of the words and the enchantment of the knowledge that suffused her mind. It was, she mused contentedly as her eyes flitted across the page, soaking up whatever they could glean, like sinking into a steaming bath at the end of the day, or snuggling into a soft bed after a week of tortuous camping, or waking up with a languorous stretch…the list of comparisons went on and on, skipping through her mind as an undercurrent to the things she read.

Beneath those, she pondered the intricacies of this new and disturbing Draco Malfoy. He was as intense as ever, but some of the acid had drained from him, leaving corroded edges that contrasted sharply to his crisp silken sleekness. Still, it seemed that sometimes his old cruelty flared up, no less scorching for all its disuse. The man was more of an enigma now than he had ever been at Hogwarts. Then, he was the epitome of everything that Hermione loathed, and it was sinfully easy to hate him with impunity. Now, he was more like a snake than ever before—deceptive and dangerous, but not intrinsically evil.

She was beginning to get distracted by these thoughts, and she wondered not for the last time why she had come here. Of course, the books were fantastic—as close to a dream library as she'd probably ever come—but with Malfoy, the invitation must have hidden strings attached. He hadn't turned over a _completely_ new leaf, after all.

_But he read __Muggle__ books._ That, more than anything, jarred Hermione from her former perceptions. What if he was reevaluating himself? Certainly, he'd gone through quite a lot since they'd sort-of graduated. The Ministry still gave him hell, and of course, the prestige of his family had crumbled to dust. Was that what had brought about this change? He no longer had the lofty Malfoy reputation to cling to—his name was tarnished, broken. What else had he ever had but that name?

She felt a surge of pity for Draco Malfoy, and she stole a discrete look at him from beneath her lashes. He still stared fixedly into the remnants of his tea. It was peculiar. Harry and Ron had once teased her for being so soft—her heart naturally went out to those less fortunate. She'd stood up for Crookshanks, Buckbeak, House Elves…and soon, if she kept gaining prominence in the Ministry, she'd be able to spread her reach much further. But she had never once considered Draco Malfoy as one of the "less fortunate" beings out there.

She was beginning to get a headache. Also, she'd read the same paragraph six times without retaining a word. She sighed, closed the book with care, and rubbed her temples.

Her movement seemed to bring Malfoy out of a trance. He shook himself a little and looked up. "Tea, Granger?" he asked, courteous and remote.

"Yes, thank you," she replied, standing up to stretch. She lifted her watch and jumped. She'd been reading—or rather, daydreaming about Malfoy—for three hours! It hardly felt like ten minutes.

Draco, too, had risen, and was about to pour her tea. She spoke up hastily.

"Oh, nevermind! I've stayed awfully late; I should be getting home. Thank you, really."

His hand did not relax. "Relax, Granger. You've time enough for one cup of tea, I'm sure."

"I really should—"

"Sit down, Granger. You look exhausted, and this has a bit of peppermint. Can't send you home to Weasley in anything less than pristine condition, or else he'll have my hide." He offered a languid half-smile to take any sting from his comment.

Yet another startling realization, of which she had had one too many already today, slammed into her stomach. _He's lonely. He wants me to stay so he won't be alone, but he's too proud to ask._ This knowledge, speculative though it was, felt instinctively right. It gave her a sense of power, exhilaration, even, to know that Draco Malfoy was—in his own warped way—reaching out to her for companionship. What _had_ the world come to?

"Yes, I suppose that'll be fine. Just one cup, though."

"Of course."

He poured, and she accepted. It did have a nice twinge of peppermint, and she inhaled the scent deeply before taking a sip. "Oh, that's very good."

"I'll pass on your compliments to Blinky."

"Blinky?"

"The House-Elf. She makes excellent tea, any kind you please."

"Ah."

They sat in silence for a while, and Hermione was lulled by the crackling of the fire, the warmth of the tea in her belly, and the comforting smell of books permeating the room. Just as her eyelids began to droop, Draco spoke again.

"So how are dear old Potter and Weasley?" he questioned. "And Ginny? Y'know, she's the only one of you lot that I could stand. Not that I'd ever have admitted it."

"Oh, they're all doing well. Harry and Ron are Aurors now, did you know? And Ginny and Harry are married, as I'm sure you know. She's playing Quidditch, at least for now. I don't see her that often anymore…"

A ribbon of conversation wound between them, in some ways as frustrating and absorbing as Draco himself. It was a mercurial thing; one moment, he'd be congenial and direct, and the next cryptic and moody, with strange nuances of voice and expression. She wasn't sure how long they sat chatting back and forth, but with each word, a strange pressure in Hermione's mind increased. He was so aggravating, always making quips about Ron and Harry or teasing her in that not-quite-cruel way, but at the same time he was…intriguing. There was something sort of lost, hungry about him that she'd never witnessed before. As she was pondering this, he stopped her thoughts cold.

"You look sort of beautiful right now." He said it bluntly, out of nowhere, and there was a shade of something in his tone. Was it irritation? Dread? No, it sounded like…defeat.

She sat frozen and said nothing, so he continued. "Damn it all, I really hate admitting that. I hate giving you or anyone that satisfaction. But you are, and I can't help thinking it, and I had to say it because…because if I didn't I would've just leaned over and kissed you and you would've been outraged and your cheeks would've gone all pink and your eyes all sparky and you would have fled and I would never be able to see you again but at least…at least now maybe you'll just _walk_ away and come back some time, even knowing that I think you're beautiful."

He'd spoken so rapidly that she had only the vaguest idea what he'd said. "What?" she asked, stupidly. She blinked once, twice, and still there he sat, all pretense dropped. The careful, haughty mask was gone, replaced by an expression of such wistfulness and something else—something she couldn't identify—that it took her breath away. "What?" Bloody hell. Her voice had gone squeaky.

This time, he enunciated painstakingly. "If I kiss you right now, are you going to run away?"

She wanted, oh, how _almost_ every fiber in her being wanted, to scream a resounding "Yes!" However, she looked into his eyes, eyes of ice and steel and _longing_, and she knew, even as she condemned herself, that the answer was no.

"No."

And so with that self-satisfied, cat-like grin that she wanted to wipe from his face with a solid punch, he leaned over the arm of her chair and brushed his lips against hers.

"You know," she whispered, struggling to get the words out because her lips seemed to be on fire, "that I'll hate myself for this."

"So will I," he replied, somber. "Is it worth it?"

"Yes," said Hermione, self-loathing cracking her voice almost beyond recognition, "I think it is."

And so they kissed, greedily and guiltily, until all thought was lost. His ministrations set her skin ablaze. She felt, as she clung to him in the middle of his library, that a fire pressed around her, threatening to scorch her flesh and consume her in its destructive might. She was well aware she teetered on the edge of some abyss, but for once, she could not bring herself to care.


	4. The Road Not Taken: Part 3

When the morning light, lancing in through huge windows, tried to wake her, Hermione resisted. With a small, sleepy sound, she nestled closer into the warm body next to her while simultaneously burrowing deeper into the silk sheets.

Wait…silk? And since when did Ron have such large windows? And eastern-facing ones, at that? That vexingly ever-reasonable Inner Hermione had woken before the rest of her, and it seemed that today, like all others, the nagging voice refused to be stifled.

_Bugger_, thought Hermione as her eyelids fluttered open, then promptly shut again at the onslaught of sunshine. _Even in my _sleep_, I ask inane questions._ Even as she lay there in a sun-drenched, silk-swathed, drowse-coated stupor, realization hit her with all the pain of the blinding light and more. Much more.

"Fuck. Oh, fuck." As if on cue, the tide of self-loathing came rolling in, twining slickly upward from her stomach to her crown. The emerald silk turned to slime that cocooned her body, trapping her in her self-induced hell. "Fu-uu-uck." She flailed fruitlessly against the bedding.

Her wildness was enough to rouse Malfoy who, to her chagrin, seemed not a bit flustered. She could scarcely believe that just moments ago, she'd tried to snuggle into his chest. Images, utterly unwelcome and tainted by the bitter, metallic twist of guilt, assaulted her mind as Malfoy raised his cool eyes to hers.

"Good morning, Granger," he said simply, reaching out to help untangle her from the mess of blankets. She recoiled visibly from his touch and clutched the sheet to her chest.

His brows knit. "No use being modest now, Granger." But he withdrew his hand.

The two of them sat in strange, pulsing silence for several long minutes. Hermione was still frozen, wild-eyed and anguished, and she knew that misery showed on her face. The Lord of the Manor, however, appeared utterly nonchalant. Here she was, she thought angrily, an open book, and she couldn't decipher a single letter swimming beneath Malfoy's skin.

Finally, he spoke. "I take it you won't be staying for breakfast?" She could not detect the slightest inflection in his tone. At least last night she'd known he felt _something_, even if she was at a loss as to what. Merlin, he was infuriating!

Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. She tried again. This time, she succeeded, but her voice was shrill and quavering. "Of course not! I shouldn't have even come at all!"

At last, a reaction! It wasn't much, just a slight momentary tension about his mouth, almost a wince. It came and dissolved like a grain of sugar on the tongue, sweet but too fleeting to enjoy.

"I thought so." He stood and stretched, unabashed at his nudity. She couldn't help but stare—his movements were so catlike, so sinuous. He reminded her absurdly of Crookshanks after a long, catnip-induced slumber. "I'll go get your clothes."

Hermione started. "No. No, I'll get them!" She scrambled from the bed without an ounce of dignity, dragging the accursed sheet with her. She distinctly heard the beginning of a question rise from Malfoy's lips, but she feigned deafness and fled, nearly tripping over the expanse of green trailing behind her.

Her heart was pounding and her existence crumbling as she traversed the maze of hallways back to the library. She'd only seen it once and had been…otherwise engaged at the time, but her memory still proved superb. She found her way there in a matter of minutes, darted to the nearest chair, and collapsed into a shaking mass of sheet and skin.

Her clothes were scattered heedlessly about the room; her lacy bra lay perilously close to the now-cold fireplace. She recalled with sickening clarity the amused, almost triumphant on Malfoy's face when he'd first seen it.

"Never thought of you as a black lingerie kind of girl, Granger," he'd said, wickedly gleeful. She had shut him up quite effectively with a bruising kiss.

"Shit. Shit, shit." Profanities kept spilling from her lips, and to her chagrin, she found that not a few tears leaked from her eyes. She was having, she realized with a curious detachment, a total mental breakdown. For several minutes, she did nothing but gasp-sob-wheeze-quiver-rock and, with the last dregs of her sanity, damn herself to an eternity of hell. "Shit." One final hiccup forced its way out, and then it was over.

Ethereal calm settled over her features. She was still now, but she was far from peaceful. She rose, scrubbed her face with the sheet despite her mother's disapproving voice droning in her mind—oh, who cared, it was _Malfoy's_!—and began methodically collecting her clothes. When she'd gathered each piece and dressed, she surveyed the room one final time, steeling herself to face the worst moment of all. Two abandoned teacups on the table caught her eye, and she felt instantly sickened. She tried to quell the rising nausea as she returned to Malfoy's room, this time at a much more sedate pace.

Thankfully, he, too, had dressed, and he sat on the bed awaiting her return. He said nothing as she marched up to him, thrust out the crumpled-up sheet and deadpanned, "I wiped my face on your blanket."

He blinked once, twice. She stood with her hands on her hips as he accepted the bundle, daring him with her most severe McGonagall glare to complain. "Alright," he replied. He stood up, and she tensed, but he made no attempt to approach her. Instead, he crossed to an ornate dresser and lifted something from the top. He turned and held it out to her.

She stared, incredulous. It was a book. The book she'd been not-really-reading before…

"I figured you could have it, since you'll enjoy it more than I would, and I doubt I'll be seeing you back here again." He held it out further.

She couldn't help it. She collapsed. Whatever inner strength had suffused her in the library was suddenly snuffed out. "How did you…? When did you…? What?" The Malfoy-like composure she'd contrived was slipping though she clung to it desperately.

"I woke up a few hours ago," he admitted, looking away from her face for the first time that morning. "I went to get your clothes, but I came back with this instead."

It was suddenly difficult to speak. "Why didn't you wake me?"

Something of the old Malfoy flashed in his face, a splash of vivid color on a faded painting. "After that, Granger," he drawled, with all of that loathsome arrogance he had once commanded, "I knew you'd need your sleep."

Her mouth hung agape. The world, which had fallen off its axis last night and now, just for a split second, righted itself, was suspended. And then, in a voice that shook so violently she wasn't sure even she could understand it, she said, "I'm sorry, Draco," and fled.

Several excruciating minutes later, she found herself staring dismally at the cluttered kitchen in Ron's apartment. His voice, worried and achingly familiar, floated in from the living room. "That you, 'Mione?"

"It's me."

In seconds, he was standing in front of her, a frown tugging at his features. "What's wrong? Where were you last night?"

She took a moment to drink in the sight of him. He was still tall and lean but no longer gangly. He'd filled out nicely since their Hogwarts days. His hair had darkened just a shade, and the spattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks had lessened just a little. The same animation that she loved still lit his face whenever he saw a new racing broom, however, and he was still endearingly oblivious to everything. The tips of his ears still turned red when he got mad, and he still ate just as much during dinner as he always had. Hermione realized, more keenly than ever now that she no longer deserved him, how completely and maddeningly in love she was with him.

"I was trying to buy you a Christmas present. And then there were books…" She tried so very hard to convey her worthlessness, but her tongue seemed to have grown ten sizes in her mouth.

Sensing her distress, Ron immediately ceased his questioning. His loving, overprotective concern only sickened her further, but she allowed herself to be drawn into his embrace. After he'd insisted she sit down and have a nice cup of tea and watched her anxiously for several unbearable minutes, he cleared his throat.

"Uh, 'Mione? There's something I've been wanting to ask you for a while now. I was trying to wait until Christmas and get it all figured out just right and stuff, like Ginny said, but I realized that it's not going to happen. So I'm just going to say it now, and will you please pretend it's all romantic and wonderful just so Ginny won't kill me, please?" His pleading eyes shot her through the heart, and she wished fervently to die. That wish became stronger and stronger as Ronald Weasley knelt before her on one knee, staring at her with beseeching, earnest apprehension.

"Hermione, will you marry me?"


	5. The Times Table: Drabble

**The Times Table**

_More than halfway up the pass  
Was a spring with a broken drinking glass,  
And whether the farmer drank or not  
His mare was sure to observe the spot  
By cramping the wheel on a water-bar,  
turning her forehead with a star,  
And straining her ribs for a monster sigh;  
To which the farmer would make reply,  
'A sigh for every so many breath,  
And for every so many sigh a death.  
That's what I always tell my wife  
Is the multiplication table of life.'  
The saying may be ever so true;  
But it's just the kind of a thing that you  
Nor I, nor nobody else may say,  
Unless our purpose is doing harm,  
And then I know of no better way  
To close a road, abandon a farm,  
Reduce the births of the human race,  
And bring back nature in people's place._

-Robert Frost

* * *

Minerva McGonagall had a secret. The secret was hidden between the covers of an impossibly-thick, leather-bound book that only someone like Hermione Granger would ever consider reading.

On rainy days, when her joints throbbed dully, Minerva sat by the fire and perused its contents, flipping pages with reverence. Nostalgic, sweet pain flared up within her—the pain of dear ones lost, along with a shade of long-suffered ache that was love unrequited.

Bright beneath her still-sharp eyes was a collection of innumerable photographs. Students, teachers, friends, lovers, colleagues—a thousand smiling faces she'd seen around Hogwarts, seen and silently cherished.


	6. The Times Table: Part 1

She ignored the twinge of fire that coursed through her as she dragged herself from her chair. Her mouth twisted into its most severe line, and she hobbled resolutely to the bookshelf. The volume she selected, with a title so faded she could no longer read it, was almost too heavy for her to bear.

But she was Minerva McGonagall, and no book would ever master her. She carried it back to the armchair and sank into its welcome softness, refusing even as she did so to lament the days when she had been young and strong. Those Stunning spells had taken a greater toll than she'd ever realized.

The book fell open in her lap. As always, a tingle of pleasure shivered up her spine. Here was a secret she had carried throughout her life, a secret she shared with no one. Even if she had, who would've believed that the sharp, stern Minerva McGonagall had such an astounding collection? Who would've believed that beneath the somewhat-harsh exterior lay a heart so deeply rooted in the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and its inhabitants?

For Merlin's sake, she kept _pictures_! Such a silly, childish thing to do, and Minerva had always been considered the epitome of maturity. There on the first page was the beaming, twinkly-eyed face of her beloved friend and mentor, Albus Dumbledore. She remembered the day this particular photograph had been taken—Albus had just been named Headmaster, and in celebration of his new position, he'd taken it upon himself to force the rest of the staff to sample some ridiculous Muggle sweet. He was ridiculously fond of all such things, she recalled with a smile. Photo Albus had stopped grinning and was now making a serious effort to un-stick his forefingers. Minerva turned the page.

A collection of black-and-white photographs littered the next few pages, and these always made the old witch shake her head in wonder. These were not Minerva McGonagall's memories—they were Minnie's. Childhood friends she hadn't seen in years waved and giggled at her from glossy surfaces, and she could not help but foolishly wave back. In a few of the pictures, she glimpsed the dark-haired, bespectacled form of her younger self, and her chest constricted.

The pages turned almost of their own accord, and Minerva was assaulted by recollections of her teaching years. She still remembered, astonishingly, the names of each and every face that flickered beneath her soft regard, and in many cases, she could recount much of the student's activity post-Hogwarts.

A rattling sigh escaped her lips. Beneath her wrinkled fingertips was a photograph that brought tears trailing down her cheeks. It was taken just after a Quidditch match in which Gryffindor fairly crushed Slytherin. James Potter, exhausted, dirt-streaked, and undeniably happy, leaned against the frame, broom in hand. The radiant, devilish Sirius Black had one arm slung about his housemate's shoulder. With the other, he grasped the wrist of one Remus J. Lupin and held it high in the air. In all her years, Minerva had never seen another with such an enchanting smile. Poor Remus looked slightly panicked. He kept his face turned from the camera, reaching up with his free hand to cover as much of it as he could. Even so, a tiny, timid smile curled the visible corner of his lips. Next to Remus, a chubby face was trying desperately to assert itself in the picture. As Minerva had often noticed, those three had an unfortunate tendency to forget young Peter Pettigrew.

Her finger trailed along the picture's edge, and her eyes clouded. Four bright young lives snuffed out by the terror that was Voldemort…The same had happened to countless others, but the loss of Hogwarts' "Marauders" had been particularly difficult to bear.

But right next to that tragic photograph rested a ray of hope. The circumstances of this one were remarkably similar: another Quidditch victory for Gryffindor. Harry Potter clutched his Firebolt, eyes dancing emerald, and cheered along with the rest of his House. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger had maneuvered through the press of bodies and were crushed to his sides, grinning manically. Beneath their glowing, youthful exuberance was a hint of the darkness—the darkness that had come and gone, that they had conquered.

Minerva smiled.

Minutes, hours, days seemed to pass in a whirlwind of page-turning whispers and saccharine smiles. Finally, she reached the end of the road to her past, and the book snapped shut with a thud of finality. Something fluttered to the floor. McGonagall bent to retrieve it, hissing as her body screamed at the sudden movement. The fingers that closed around the object trembled with echoes of pain.

It was a photograph she'd never seen before. Two children sat by the Hogwarts Lake with their backs facing the camera. One of them had a cascade of red hair trailing almost to the grass, the other an unkempt mass of stringy black. The dark-haired one sat with shoulders slightly hunched, and even without seeing his face, Minerva got the impression that he was a bit forlorn.

The children's fingers were interlaced, resting between their bodies on the ground.

She racked her brains for a short while, pondering who the pair of them could be and where the picture had come from. It certainly wasn't one that she'd taken—she would've remembered such a scene, for certain. The answer came to her like the lighting pain that sometimes flashed through her aging body, and she uttered a sound caught between a gasp and a sob.

There was only one girl she remembered with hair so vivid, and only one boy with hair so oily black. This was Lily Evans and Severus Snape in their first year, before the world had turned upside down and fate driven them apart.


	7. The Times Table: Part 2

The tears came again, grief and shame intermingling on her face as she recalled how vehemently she had wished for Snape's death. He had broken her trust and torn out her heart with a single spell, and she had been unable to see the pain with which he'd said it. It did little to console her to think that that was the whole point—if she had seen, others would have, and her star would've been snuffed out for naught.

She had raged within herself, berating the benevolent part of her which trusted implicitly, and hardened that part until she thought she'd lost it forever. For a while, it had seemed that her goodness had died with a bespectacled old man whose smile was the sun, in her eyes.

When Harry told her, choked with tears and stained with haunting darkness that he'd never be able to wash away, of Severus's last gift, the brightness in her had come shuddering to life, and the pain she had kept at bay along with it burst forth in a waterfall of tears.

_Harry embraced her rather awkwardly, soundless and patient until she'd exhausted herself even though an ocean remained within, uncried. She pulled away, dried her puffy eyes, and told him (with as much dignity as her croaking voice allowed) that she was stepping down as Headmistress. She felt the need to justify her decision, to explain to him why it was that she could not take up the mantle of Albus Dumbledore as the wizarding world expected her to do, but his words stopped her._

"_I understand, Professor."_

"_Minerva, Harry. You really must call me Minerva. I'm not your teacher anymore."_

_For the first time since he'd entered her office, he looked like an uncertain child. "Erm…alright, Prof—Minerva." The name twisted awkwardly about his tongue._

_They were having tea, which was absurd because both were still covered in sweat from the fighting and trembling from identifying the dead afterward, when he asked the inevitable question._

"_Did you know that Sna—Severus…that he loved my mother?"_

_He stared into his teacup as though seeking answers in the tea leaves. Minerva wished keenly (and not for the first time, truth be told) that Dumbledore sat in her stead, the man with all the answers, and she had taken his place that night in the tower. But alas, even the greatest wizard of the time could not escape the final rest. Her eyes flickered to his portrait, to his sleeping face._

"_I…I suppose I didn't. In a way, I'm just as guilty as the rest. I never paid much thought to Severus. He was brilliant at Potions, and at curses, but his marks in my class were mediocre at best, and that was really all I knew of him. He kept to so much to himself that few teachers noticed him, and even fewer took an interest. Of course, Albus…Well, I feel sure that he would have known, even back then."_

"_But they were never together?"_

"_Oh, they studied Potions now and then, and Lily was always defending him from…from Sirius and James, but…no, I can't recall seeing them together."_

_A moment of silence ensued, into which she ventured, "I'm sorry I can't tell you more, Harry. If Dumbledore were here…"_

"_It's alright, Professor. It doesn't really matter anyway, I suppose." He drained the last of his tea and set down the cup, and she knew before he spoke that he was leaving._

She drifted slowly out of her reverie, and for several confused moments, past and present collided and she could not remember who she was or where she was or what she had been thinking of. She encompassed Minnie, Minerva, and Professor McGonagall all at once, and the tumultuous emotions of her trip down memory lane left her sorely desiring a nap.

She placed the final photograph carefully onto the empty last page, smoothing it down with gnarled fingers and muttering a charm to hold it fast. Then, she lifted herself from the chair with enormous effort, bones popping and creaking. It wasn't worth it, she decided, to cross the room and put the book back, so she set it on the chair and hobbled instead to the window.

The transformation was hellfire followed by cool relief. The aches didn't disappear when she had whiskers and a tail, but they receded. Circling once, twice, thrice, she eased to the floor in the patch of slowly-draining sunlight and sank into blessed sleep.


End file.
